


Reprieve

by stephanericher



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 03:49:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9217307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Bodhi gets waylaid in the rain.





	

Bodhi supposes he should know by now to never consider himself lucky. Getting up early and getting to his ship a few standard hours early for once is all well and good (Force knows they’ve been grinding it into him that the schedule is getting tighter and everything is more urgent and if he’s one minute late he’ll be demoted), especially when they let him go off early since the shipment is already set to go. Except the problem with the Empire (not problem, he shouldn’t be thinking those kinds of words this deep in Imperial territory) is that being one minute early messes up the bureaucracy, too.

Oh, they’d called ahead and cleared it with Eadu base; that’s not the problem (especially since he loses time on the way and only ends up three quarters of an hour early what with the planetary rotation and flying through fog). But clearing things and getting them done are entirely different matters, especially when it comes to the lazy troopers who would really rather not be inspecting kyber shipments when that’s usually the next shift’s job and they could be standing around half-dead or waiting indoors instead.

At first it’s nice to be out there waiting for the inspection and unloading to finish, a bit of cool fresh air without the sharp bite of the night air on Jedha. He’s never gotten much of a chance to enjoy the days on Eadu; he’s usually asleep or checking off shipment inventories or on his way out. The fog is hell to fly through, but from the landing platform it looks beautiful, smudging the edges and crevasses of the cliffs that rise up all around. There’s not much to see, overall; everything within a few hundred meters either way is swallowed up in the mist, like a painting someone was too lazy to finish. The rain’s coming down lightly, closer to floating than falling.

It’s cold though, and Bodhi’s not quite prepared to be out in this kind of temperature for more than this long. He checks his cron; it’s been twenty minutes and that’s about as long as the check usually takes. One of the troopers plods back down the ramp, carrying a crate (maybe it’s the last; Bodhi hasn’t been keeping count). He doesn’t turn to even acknowledge Bodhi, just shouts back at the other trooper still in the ship. Bodhi can’t say that’s not typical. Troopers don’t like dealing with pilots, especially not beyond relaying orders to wait outside on the landing pad until they’re done with the inspection.

The other trooper reappears a moment later. “Looks like your motivator’s dinged up.”

The motivator’s always been dinged up, courtesy of the pilot who’d had this shuttle before Bodhi (apparently he’d had anger issues and no problem taking them out on the ship).

“It functions,” says Bodhi.

“Yeah, well, if you’re carting fuel in a high-density area in the inner rim and it blows…” says the trooper. “I’m going to send for a mechanic. You stay here.”

The trooper dashes off through the rain before he can say he’s pretty sure he’ll never get anywhere near the inner rim, and Bodhi sighs, water vapor trailing out of his mouth and into the air. The motivator has never been a problem before; he’s pretty sure no one’s even given it a second look until now. But today for some reason they’ve decided it’s better to have him stand out in the rain by the shuttle uselessly while they classify the non-problem.

* * *

The mechanic promises a few minutes, but they turn into what feels like a few hours. Bodhi’s long since past his threshold of comfort, extremities numb and lips pressed together. He’d grabbed the only spare shirt from his bag and pulled it over his head as a makeshift hood to keep his ears warm (his hair’s still pulled back and already dripping). At least the boots are waterproof and his pockets are close to his skin, though with the incessant rain even his legs are turning clammy. Bodhi spares a glance at his cron; through the fogged-up screen it appears to have been just short of an hour since landing.

Finally, the mechanic exits. “I’ve swapped out the motivator for a new one.”

She looks triumphant, and Bodhi wants to roll his eyes. Instead, he thanks her, because pilots are supposed to be grateful for this kind of thing. It could have taken five minutes to do that, less if they’d left it for Bodhi to swap out himself—but that’s not how the Empire operates, everyone in their role and everything in order by the book, eliminating all other alternatives before going for the swap. Bodhi can’t even think his bitter thoughts straight; he’s distracted by pulling the shirt over his head again and trying to move his toes against the soles of his boots (they’re waterproof but not insulated). His teeth are chattering; snot is dripping down his face and he’d really rather not wipe it with a waterlogged sleeve (it might not do any good and then he’d have to take his hands out of his pockets).

The indoor air doesn’t hit him the way he’d expect it to, doesn’t envelop him in a bed of warmth. The surface of the floor is slippery under Bodhi’s wet boots, and he feels the water keep seeping in through his jumpsuit. The temporary quarters are close, but even close feels like far as he waits for the lift and then waits for it to go two whole floors down. He’s practically racing down the corridor, double-checking where he’s assigned. It’s not easy to find it and for a second Bodhi wonders if he should have gone to Galen’s quarters. But on the off-chance Galen’s there, Bodhi would really rather not have to see him like this (the stares from the people on patrol had been bad enough and Bodhi hadn’t even been giving them much attention) and all he wants right now is warmth (Galen’s body could supply that, space-heater he turns into at night, Bodhi’s pathetic mind whispers).

He strips off the jumpsuit and everything underneath, leaves it all lying on the floor, and rushes to the fresher. His fingers still aren’t cooperating and when he pokes the muscles of his palms they feel all weird and hard; for a second Bodhi wonders if they’re atrophying, if his hands will fall off. But he can move everything; he can awkwardly shove the faucet on and move it toward the hotter end. He can’t tell if it’s hot or just warm, but whatever it is feels wonderful (what parts he can feel), and for a while Bodhi just stands under the water. It’s a waste; he doesn’t care (can’t be more of a waste than leaving him out there uselessly).

Eventually the urge to be dry wins out; his toes are tingling and the heels of his hands feel right and he shuts off the water, wrapping himself in the standard-issue towel. It’s not great, but it’ll do, or at least it would if Bodhi hadn’t used his only sleep shirt as a hood. At least there’s a blanket and his pants are still dry and the bed’s right next to the vent (even if it’s several years since it’s gotten a new air filter and the heat’s weak).

He’s drifting into an uncomfortable half-sleep when the door buzzer sounds.

“Bodhi? Are you there?”

And then he remembers he was supposed to meet Galen before dinner, which according to his cron started fifteen minutes ago.

“Coming!” he calls, before remembering that the rooms are soundproof and he’s not speaking into the microphone.

Galen’s about to turn away when Bodhi opens the door, and so much for not looking pathetic. He almost cringes at the look on Galen’s face as he scans Bodhi up and down, numb toes curled against the carpet and blanket halfway off his bare shoulders, wet hair stuck to his neck.

“What happened, Darling?” Galen says, stepping in. He reaches for Bodhi’s hand, and frowns at the touch.

Galen’s fingers feel like an overloaded hyperdrive, and Bodhi’s own hand feels clammy even to him.

“You’re so cold; we need to get you to the medbay—”

“I’ll be fine,” Bodhi cuts him off. “I just got stuck in the rain for an hour or so.”

“An hour,” Galen echoes.

Bodhi nods. “They had me wait outside while they fixed the motivator. Standard procedure and all that.”

Galen knows what that is; he’s seen pilots come in before shivering and soaked, already beginning to peel their flight suits off as soon as they turn the corner out of the way of any troopers or officers And Bodhi’s feeling a little better; he can feel all of his extremities just fine and he’s most of the way dry and most of the shivering is because the blanket’s halfway off. He shoots a smile at Galen, but Galen’s absolutely not buying it. He reaches out a hand, lays the back flat on Bodhi’s forehead. The other comes to rest against Bodhi’s cheek.

“You don’t feel like you’re running a fever.”

Bodhi pulls the blanket back up over his shoulders. Galen frowns and withdraws his hands, shucking his jacket in the same motion. He then holds it out.

“This might not help much—I’ll put in a request for another blanket, too, but in the meantime…”

“Thank you,” Bodhi says. He pulls the jacket on and readjusts the blanket, closing the jacket around him. Galen’s broader than he is, but it’s not uncomfortably loose (the sleeves that end near the line of his knuckles are actually an advantage right now) and more importantly it feels like Galen, warm and steady.

Galen pushes Bodhi’s hair back behind his ear; Bodhi leans into the touch.

“They shouldn’t be doing that. You could still get sick; I’m surprised someone hasn’t yet.”

Cargo pilots are a dime-a-dozen. Bodhi’s heard way too many superiors casually making the observation that droids would be cheaper and more reliable to have any delusions that his health means anything to the empire at large. He doesn’t need to say as much; one look from Galen says their minds are on the same path. Galen pulls Bodhi in, tight against his chest, and Bodhi wants to say he doesn’t need the empire to place any importance in him as long as he matters to Galen but that just sounds cheesy and hackneyed in his head. The residual numbness in his arms seems to be finally fading, like Galen’s warmth is chasing it out, a sunrise kissing the surface of a planet.

“You can still go to dinner—”

Galen draws back, giving Bodhi a look. “Would you prefer it if I stayed?”

“Yeah,” Bodhi admits.

“Good,” says Galen. “Good.”

**Author's Note:**

> what is ending lmao
> 
> feedback is always appreciated, whether it's here or [tumblr](http://stephanericherthanyou.tumblr.com) or [twit](http://twitter.com/stephanericher).


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